Pinions
by Irideae
Summary: The two winged people who question their ability to get a flat-mate in the same morning just might be a good match. Winglock AU


For the most part, winged people are just another race. They are hated by some, and envied by others. At one time, their likenesses were worshipped. During another, they were considered demons, and were hunted, almost to eradication. But over time, they have gradually come to be simply accepted into society. They've always been there, and always will- like everyone else, they just are.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has wings. They're beautiful, sleek and not-quite black when they glow with streaks of iridescent blues and greens in sunlight, and, with their huge wingspan, intimidating. Even so, they haven't served their purpose much at all- they haven't been used to fly. Sherlock doesn't seem to care about this, shrugging it off whenever someone expresses their shock at this, saying that if wingless people can live without flying, he doesn't need to be able to, either.

When questioned about this, though, there is always an unmistakable bitterness in his reply.

* * *

John Watson has wings. They're not the most interesting as they come, mousy brown and speckled, and slightly wispy at the edges. But they're well loved and well used, flown on for decades. John's greatest regret is, because of this, his choice to go off to the war in Afghanistan. A gunshot, and his flight is taken away from him with a spatter of blood and a punctured left wing.

He tries to accept this loss after being invalided home to Britain, and almost succeeds. But occasionally they come back to haunt him, submerging him in a cold emptiness and the nightmares that have plagued him ever since.

* * *

Mike Stamford, on the other hand, does not have wings. They, and the people who have them, have always amazed him. Perhaps this is why when he meets John in the park for the first time in months, he gets the idea that the two winged people who question their ability to get a flat-mate in the same morning just might be a good match.

* * *

In the beginning, John isn't quite sure what he thinks of Sherlock. The self-proclaimed consulting detective isn't the most careful with keeping his wings out of sight, when most others of their kind keep theirs under their clothing. Sherlock's, meanwhile, trail out of his coat, moving habitually in accordance with his emotions- often raising slightly, menacingly, whenever he feels the least bit harried. _But, _he thinks the night of their first case together, running through dim streets and alleys, _he certainly is brilliant. _Sherlock makes him feel freer than he has in a long time, and for the first time since returning from Afghanistan, he loses his limp and the persistent ache in his left wing.

At the same time, Sherlock finds himself unusually intrigued by John. Normally he wouldn't be, by someone like him- John would be, at a passing glance, unremarkable and mundane. But something about him seems out of the ordinary. But for now, he knows he will have to wait, until more information presents itself. (Because somehow, it doesn't seem quite right to go looking for it.)

Time passes, and their tentative friendship (though initially more of an association, really) blossoms.

* * *

"Take the right," Sherlock says, and he and John split ways to pursue the fugitive (this time, a carjacker and almost-kidnapper) from different directions in a tangle of backstreets.

John feels a sweep of exhilaration rush through him as he sprints down a narrow path, the criminal's footsteps not far ahead of him. Before long, he stumbles into a dead end, and breathes heavily, suddenly aware of the silence around him. He briefly senses an impending danger, but has no time to react before he receives a blow on the back of his head.

He spins around to face his assailant- the carjacker, complete with a black balaclava. _How creative, _John muses grimly, before throwing a punch to his face. The carjacker reacts angrily and immediately, and they continue exchanging blows, each grappling for the upper hand without success. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Abruptly, the carjacker turns and lands a kick on John's injured wing, and a burst of black fills his vision as he tries not to fall. The wing snaps out without warning, tearing through his jacket, bent at a painful angle. His hand scrabbles for the wall, desperate for balance, and the carjacker approaches him, a malicious glint in his eyes.

Resonating footsteps fill the thick silence that had risen and Sherlock materializes. He looks briefly at John's wing with a somewhat surprised expression, before turning to the carjacker. His wings open slowly, deliberately, and _oh, _John has never seen Sherlock's entire wingspan before, but it is the biggest and most gorgeous he has ever seen- his primaries extend so far they brush slightly against the walls on either side.

The carjacker, feeling threatened, wastes no time in scrambling on top of a crate and onto a roof, disappearing into the night. It isn't the first time they've lost a criminal, and anyways, this time it isn't a murderer, so they don't give chase.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, hand extended. His gaze is back on John's wing, and John realizes that he hadn't let Sherlock know that he'd had them.

John takes his hand and is pulled to his feet. "Yes, 'm fine."

* * *

As soon as they return to the flat, John is half-manhandled onto one of the armchairs, and Sherlock gingerly examines his wing, gently twisting it back into its proper place.

"Shot there, then. I'd have thought it was your shoulder," Sherlock says, and suddenly presses a finger to the gap in John's wing where the bullet had passed through. John winces slightly, and Sherlock immediately lets go.

"Did you fly?" he asks softly.

John chuckles sadly. "All the time."

Sherlock goes back to silently inspecting his wing.

"Did you?"

Sherlock freezes, and John realizes it wasn't the right thing to say. Sherlock's response is slow, carefully kept away from emotion.

"I… never learned. Don't need to." His eyes speak otherwise. John doesn't want to press him, but he must look that way, because after a moment Sherlock continues.

"None of my instructors wanted to teach me for long. Something about my deductions. After a while my parents considered my flight a lost cause and stopped hiring them."

"What did you say about them?"

"The usual, whom they'd been sleeping with, where they'd been," Sherlock says, and a small smile makes its way onto his face. John grins in return.

They're both silent after that, Sherlock continuing to delicately study John's wing. But everything feels more at peace.

* * *

A week later, John confiscates Sherlock's chemistry set, yelling at him about almost burning himself, or, possibly, the entire flat. Sherlock tries to explain that he'd been trying to devise a stopper for the hole in John's wing, and John retorts that he doesn't have to almost kill himself for the cause.

Although, really, he does appreciate the sentiment.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Reviews are strongly appreciated. **

**I don't own Sherlock. Although I would like to.**


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